


and I don't need a reason to bleed until we're even

by vivial



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, F/M, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 07:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivial/pseuds/vivial
Summary: A short one-shot based on all the random feelings I have for Marisa and Asriel and their brutal, raw and absolutely complicated relationship.





	and I don't need a reason to bleed until we're even

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just here for the Masriel party! lol  
> title comes from dirty love by mt. joy.

They lock eyes across the hall, each seated at their own table, under the gleaming light of a lazy Sunday afternoon. Both their hands tucked in thick old books, torn and fragile with dust, both consumed by their own focus, lost in words of varied nature. For an instant, they seem to be stuck in an everlasting stupor, not fully acknowledging the other’s presence. Marisa snaps out of it first, smiling discreetly at the stranger, luring him in, as she always does. His eyes narrow but he looks unimpressed, and in a moment he goes back to his reading, not in the slightest shaken by her presence. His name eludes her, but only for so long, yet she doesn’t need to know it to understand that he is powerful and that she must find a way to meet this man.

***

He learns not to leave her openings to scheme. She is far too resourceful for her own good, even when they’re younger and he is wiser, less consumed by rage and bitterness, certainly more fueled by his own passion and fire. It’s difficult to read her as a whole: if he takes her apart, he makes some sense out of her conflicting existence, splitting good and evil without visible borders. Her endgame goals, if there are any, elude him; sometimes he thinks her power plays are just a way to cope with boredom and suddenly she is too relatable.

***

 _Marisa_ , he says, so many times she had lost count by that point. She closes her eyes and sighs as if tomorrow may never come. Her monkey twirls impatiently at her feet. She has her back turned to him, because the mere thought of staring into his eyes is enough to make her shiver. She hates the sound of her name in his voice, it always sounds as if she is profane and she feels vulnerable, exposed. He knows that too because he makes sure to say it in times when she is being doubtful, about her experiments or their affair, or when she being nasty or difficult. She realised she had been conditioned into letting her guard down whenever he says her name. Sometimes she wishes they had never met, but then he kisses her, harsh and imperative, his touch is as demanding as his gaze and his words, and she realises there was no other way life could have been.

***

 _Beautiful_ is certainly the last adjective he uses to describe her, perhaps because he can see through the masquerade or because he simply care about the rest. The women whom he consort with are often resourceful and diligent, she just happens to be outstanding due to her ravaging nature, clawing through life while covering the marks. She always offers him an eerie smile, as if she knows a secret no one else knows, which all things considered, she probably did. Whenever he asks her why does she want power and prestige so badly, her reply is a sinister grin and diversion, by either kissing or insulting him, whichever works best, sometimes even both. Asriel tells her, in moments like that, she is not as interesting as she thinks she is, and she retorts he is expendable to her. They’re both liars.

***

Something dark lingers in his eyes, something so pungent and so citric, Marisa can’t find the answer right way, dazzled by it. He does not have gentle ways, his hands are as harsh as his words, never once he said a sentence to her that wasn’t rude or demanding, she had always felt commanded, diminished, controlled. It was quite the struggle to attach herself, it is twice as hard to let him go. When he walks out, every time, she stares at his bare back, his wide and powerful shoulders and watches him get dressed. He always leaves with a casual goodbye, but every single time he walks out the door, Marisa chastises herself for wondering if he will come back. What would she do if he didn't? How come her answer to that thought wasn’t _“You move on as before”_? She hates that sense of passiveness he causes on her, suddenly she feels powerless and that is unnatural.

***

At certain times, she feels like a static field of energy, their will clashing so intensely, their heat overpowering the sun. Stars flicker, her skin has a light so bright he cannot afford to look directly into her eyes. Stelmaria calls it denial, that he does not dare face her true nature because he fears the loathing that will come with the truth; for once in his life he lacks the words to reply.

***

When all is shattered, their little game escalates to a point with no return. Asriel understands it’s his fault for having a temper, for risking too much, for being too bold. Her face remains scarred in his mind, now as a reminder of all that he’s lost. Whichever regrets he has, he does not speak of them, instead fully embracing his wrath towards everything that took from him all he cherished, Lyra amongst them, now thrown in a priory of all things. He was prepared to stay away from the girl, for once in his life, he decided to abide by other’s wishes, just this once. Then he learns her mother wants her, for no good reason because he knows her far too well, and there is this bitter taste in his mouth, something that has been lingering since he first saw her in a dusty library. They tell him she is working her way towards the girl, demanding to see her, and he despises her resolve as much as he finds her incredibly willful. He then loathes himself for ever caring about her wretched behaviour, her endless ambition and lack of any moral sense. _She does not get to make demands_ , he says bitterly, then marches back to Oxford, to the priory,so he can make sure Marisa never even sees the colour of their child’s eyes.

***

As strategists, they feud across a never-ending board, both rulers and paws of their own fate and that of others, there is no room for pleasantries, not right now, not anymore. She is certainly fairing better, her long reigning role as the church’s prosecutor and faithful, hence why she locks him up in the cold, lonely north. He cannot haunt her if he is away, he certainly cannot interfere if he is trapped, and that is a comfort she feels through the anguish. When she is told he demands to see her, Marisa realises she does not have the resolve to face him, especially when he seems to know she is responsible for his imprisonment. _He does not get to make demands_ , she says bitterly. How naive on her part; he haunts her all the same.


End file.
